Somebody's After Genius Again, and Perhaps The Pony, Too

I don't want to give away too much information concerning Genius and The Pony. They have flow the coop, cut the apron strings, squirmed out from under my thumb, and are somehow surviving without my interference. As long as I deposit money in The Pony's account, that is. He has one year of college left, and isn't quite functioning in the real world just yet.

A while back, I might have mentioned how Genius dodged a plane crash by not accepting a job with a company who pursued him. A company known for manufacturing airplanes, which would have placed him in the division that designs the navigation systems of the models that have been grounded due to crashing. I don't like to use actual factual names, lest it infringe on Genius's privacy.

Well, someone else is after Genius. As you know, he currently works for, um... let's call them Garment. He designs navigation systems for big yachts. Not small yachts, mind you. Super yachts. He's very happy doing so. But these pesky companies keep trying to lure him away. The current one I will call OOber. They're still in the interview process, but I think they might be wearing down Genius's loyalty to Garment. He says that if offered, and if he accepts, it would come near to doubling his salary. Which is already above what I was making when I retired after 28 years.

Anyhoo... when Genius mentioned that he'd been talking to OOber, upon calling to chat hands-free on his evening commute, I at first said,

"Oh, no! You don't want to do that!"

"Why not? What's wrong with OOber?"

"You might die!"

"What do you mean, I might die?"

"You could get shot by a passenger!"

"Uh. Mom. I'm not going to be DRIVING for them!"

"Oh. Well. That's the first thing I thought of. Like, you might be wanting to make a little extra money in your spare time."

"No. I don't really need to do that. I would be working in their driverless car division."

"Oh, no! What if it runs over somebody, and you get sued?"

"Nobody can sue me, Mom. Besides, they've only killed ONE person! And she just ran out in front of the car with her bicycle. We're past that now."

I won't go into any more details. Genius has a good head on his shoulders, and is capable of making his own career decisions. The Pony isn't quite at that point yet, starting his senior year at OU next Monday. We have a bit different kind of conversation. Mostly by text. At unpredictable hours. Like Tuesday at 12:17 a.m.

"Supernatural stuff of the day: grey and faceless lady sitting on my couch."

"Were you sleeping?"

"No. This was earlier."

"Daytime?"

"I was in the kitchen, around 2:00? Not sure exactly, but daylight."

"A few days ago, my lair glasses had that smudge on them again when I came downstairs. In a streak of three, like kitten-size toes. Yesterday in my lair, I heard something fall behind me. Like a Puffs box hitting the tile. I couldn't find anything on the floor that might have fallen. The light outside my lair is burned out, and the one at the far end of the pool table goes off, then comes back on when I turn to look at it."

"Strange."

"Yep."

That's it. The entire conversation. Kids can be so different.

Allegedly, Val is an -IST

Friday, I noticed an interesting vehicle on the parking lot of The Gas Station Chicken Store. It was parked with the door open. I think I saw someone move inside. Not sure. I was twisted around backwards trying to get a picture. Not because I was documenting possible evidence. Because I was going to send it to The Pony.

"Am I a "classist" for putting my purse out of sight when I went in The Gas Station Chicken Store for my 44 oz Diet Coke?"

"YES"

"Maybe when you actually have some money, you might see the world differently. Or I guess other people might be hiding their purses from YOU!"

"If you got an over-the-shoulder purse, that classism wouldn't be a problem."

"I have one, but only for gambling. I don't haul my regular purse into every store with me."

Here's the thing. I'm not accusing those van people of being thieves. It just looks that way, because they're driving that van. No. Wait. That's not how I meant it to sound. I generally leave my purse sitting on the passenger seat as I dash inside for a few items. If I see any people hanging out, or sitting in a car nearby, I put my purse out of sight, no matter how new or old the car is.

When I go in Walmart, I ALWAYS put my purse out of sight, because I know I'll be inside for a while. Likewise, I don't even take my regular purse to a casino, because I won't leave it in the car, not even the trunk, because of valet parking.

See? I don't think it's so wrong to put my purse out of sight with an open van sitting right there. It's just bad optics. The Pony calls all white vans "raper vans." But you don't see me calling him a... um... a... "ra-something-ist!"

It's just common sense. I'm a sense-ist.

Of course, some people I park next to probably take one look at my 2008 T-Hoe, and stuff their purse way up under the seat.

Val Suffers a CENTsational Near-Fail

Oh, dear. I don't know where to begin. Even though some of you have hinted, suggested, intimated, attempted to foreshadow, tried to point out the folly, and flat out told me I was downright crazy for taking pictures and picking up my pennies... I refused to listen. I'm still not actively listening. LALALA, got my fingers in my ears when they aren't pecking at the keyboard. Can't put my fingers in my eyes to keep from reading, though.

Here's the deal. I only found one penny this week. I'm not complaining! Like enough is as good as a feast, one is as good as a fortune. Not really. I'd much rather pig-out than eat just enough, and I'd also rather find a fortune than one penny. But the week wasn't a shut-out, so there's that.

TUESDAY, August 6, I happened to be over in Sis-Town, transferring money around for The Pony's housing for fall semester. I'll have to do it all over again for the remaining tuition after his scholarship is disbursed next month, but at least this part is out of the way. Coming home, I went by the School-Turn Casey's for a couple scratchers. They both won $15, so that was a good decision.

While waiting for my favorite clerk to tear off those scratchers, I spied a PENNY!

Sadly, ever since Waterside Mart sold out to Casey's, this store has not bothered to decorate their counter with brightly colored ads with race-car drivers hawking merchandise. At least I saw the penny, a heads-up 1988.

I managed to get my two photos, and put my phone back in my pants pocket. My left hand, holding my money, was on the edge of the counter as I reached down for the penny.

Let the record show that Val's knees are not bend-friendly. So I don't squat. It's easier for me to use my flexibility, and bend over like a toe-touch. Much to the chagrin of unfortunate line-waiters behind me, who are exposed to my ample rumpus. This day, though, there were no other line-waiters.

I almost had it. My fingertips were right there. And then the unthinkable happened! I started to fall over!!! Normally, with the location of this penny right there against the counter, I would have used my left hand to nab it. But since I hadn't paid yet, I was holding the money on the counter. Just the heel of my hand resting there, as I reached across my body with my right hand to get the penny. Apparently, I had failed to notify my center-of-gravity of this impending action.

I could feel myself falling. This was not good! It's like my life was about to pass before my eyes! How embarrassing! I was going to fall down like an old lady! I didn't think I'd get hurt. It was kind of like a slow motion fall. NO! I was NOT going to allow myself to go over! I scrabbled with my left hand, trying to get leverage on the edge of the counter. I tried to bend my knees a little bit, to put the center of gravity back toward my ample rumpus.

If there's one thing I learned from teaching physics, it's that the center of gravity has to be over the base of support, or the object will fall. I was the object! I was falling! But not! It was quite a struggle, but somehow, I scooched down a little, left knee bending, right leg locked. I was up against the counter, trying to right myself. Sheesh! Imagine watching a bench-presser struggling to lift that barbell back on the rack, shaking, shaking, getting closer, almost, THERE! Whew!

That's what it was like for me. I finally managed to right myself. Of course the security camera was on my ample rumpus the whole time, the one mounted on the front wall, to show the profile of customers at the counter. Except it showed a full-on shot of my ample rumpus. I can only imagine the horror on the face of that clerk as she watched my predicament. Come to think of it, she was extra-nice to me when I was back in there on Friday.

So there you have it. I had a near-fall, and a near-fail in picking up my lone penny-of-the-week. That doesn't mean I'm going to give up on my quest to become a Future Pennyillionaire.
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2019 Running Total
Penny     # 82.
Dime      still at 15.
Nickel    still at 8.
Quarter   still at 4.

2018 TOTALS
Penny  131
Dime  17
Nickel  6
Quarter  1

2017 TOTALS (Started in March, 2017)
Penny  78
Dime   6
Nickel  0
Quarter  0
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Not Quite as Embarrassing as the Month I Had to Prop Open the Back Hatch with a Crutch

Poor old T-Hoe. He's falling apart. We've been planning to get rid of him for three years now, but I just can't do it. T-Hoe is comfortable. My leather seat is broken in. I sit up high, surveying my kingdom as I roll along, confident that in a crash, 80% of other vehicles would sustain more damage than he. Not that I go looking for a crash, mind you. I drive defensively every day. Seems like center lines are only a suggestion around here.

Anyhoo... the latest malfunction on T-Hoe is the passenger side mirror. I discovered the problem two days ago. Rolling up the driveway on my quest for a 44 oz Diet Coke, I pushed the button to fold out T-Hoe's mirrors. I always fold them in upon entering the garage, because Hick broke off the passenger side mirror backing out, when I was being transported to the city by ambulance with multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. So that passenger side mirror is actually 6 years newer than the driver's side mirror. Which has also had this not-opening problem, off and on, as recently as last month.

Anyhoo... I had to stop at the end of the driveway and get out and walk around to manually pop that side mirror out. Which meant I had to fend off a swarm of horseflies, and step into the grass, which probably means I'll get itchy bites from freeloading insects that moved into the mesh of my shoes.

I know it's not an electrical problem causing T-Hoe's mirror woes. Oh, he definitely HAS an electrical problem. Only the back part of the seat heats now, not the butt part. Sometimes even the back won't heat, because the light of the control doesn't even come on when I push it. The radio will decide to go black and silent at random times. Then come back on 1 to 5 minutes later. But when I push the button to extend or retract the mirrors, the driver's side mirror does as told, while the passenger side remains in its current position, while the motor trying to move it whirs for about 15 seconds.

The first day, I parked on the wrong side of the road down at the mailboxes, so I could walk around to the mirror without machete-ing my way through tree limbs. I popped that mirror closed and then open, twice. When I got back in, the control to move the glass part of the mirror worked, which hadn't before. It still wouldn't fold in when I got back home, though. I left it out, and maneuvered T-Hoe into the garage. When I walked around to get my 44 oz Diet Coke out, I manually closed it for my back-out trip the next day.

I told Hick about the malfunction. Asked if maybe there was something he could squirt into the mechanism to make it work. He'd done so once with the driver's side mirror. Graphite, I think. The powdery stuff. He said he would. I figure that after running up and down this mile of gravel road at least once a day for 12 years, the works might get gummed-up with dust.

Of course the next day, Hick had not even thought about doing what he'd agreed to. I called him while waiting for the garage door to open (on the 8th try). He was just sitting down to lunch at Burger King. That's what he said, though it was probably Hardee's, since he gets them confused. Do you think Hick apologized and said he'd get right on it? Who are we kidding...

Hick LAUGHED about it!

"Val. It's just a plastic gear. If one of the ears gets worn, it's not going to work. I don't know what you think I can do about it. Maybe tonight I'll drive it over to the BARn and see if I can loosen it up."

You know, because actually TAKING IT TO MICK THE MECHANIC FOR REPAIRS didn't even enter Hick's mind. Like the time the hydraulic thingy that opens the back hatch went kaput, and Hick went out to the garage and put a crutch in the back.

"There. I've got you fixed up. You won't have to hold it open with your hand now. You can prop it with that crutch. I'll see if I can find that part next time I go to the parts store."

Sheesh! You'd think I was driving a $200 junker. Not a 2008 Tahoe.

No, Not Like THAT

"Can you send me a picture of your little pole?"

Something I never thought I'd be saying to Hick. Don't freak out. It's not like it sounds! I don't want to put THAT picture in anybody's head.

Hick is quite proud of his little pole. In fact, he had it out at the Storage Unit Store on Wednesday morning, waving it around, showing it to the units' owner. Yes. He IS one to brag. Hick's little pole is three feet long. He's going to offer his little pole for sale at $12, but he'll probably accept an offer of $6, bottom line.

Hick had spent part of Tuesday afternoon over in the BARn, fiddling with the tip of his little pole. It's actually a FRANKENPOLE, made of a broken-off fishing pole, a different metal tip, and a reel that was bought in a 5-gallon bucket of reels for $10. Hick takes the reels apart to fix them. He says most of the time the problem is that somebody used grease on them instead of oil. I had thought maybe it was jammed line, but I guess any old fool can fix that, without giving away their reel.

Anyhoo... Hick was as happy with his little pole as Gizmo the mogwai sitting under Billy's Christmas tree, tooting a toy horn and waving a candy cane. Like poor Gizmo, Hick's joy was also short-lived. After showing off his little pole to his buddy, casting it a dozen times to prove that it worked, Hick put it in SilverRedO, and headed to Walmart for an oil change.

Hick left his little pole on the floor of the truck, the tip leaning against the seat. When he climbed back in SilverRedO with new oil, he noticed that his little pole was laying across the seat. Closer inspection revealed that THE TIP OF HICK'S LITTLE POLE WAS BROKEN!

He'd already driven off the lot when he made the discovery. So he couldn't go back and complain without them questioning why he thought THEY broke his little pole. At least they didn't forget to replace the plug after the oil change, and burn up his engine, like they did with a young pre-ex-mayor.

Hick thinks that when a worker opened the door to vacuum the floor of SilverRedO, he either leaned on the pole, breaking it against the seat, or lifted it up to lay on the seat, and hit the tip against the ceiling.

Don't you worry about Hick's little pole. He took it over to the BARn for repairs. It's just a little shorter now.

As with all pictures taken by Hick, you either get all background and a tiny subject, or a tight closeup that neglects to show all of the subject.

Here's the mangled tip of Hick's little pole.

Below is the repaired version.

Yes. I, too, thought you'd be seeing the entirety of Hick's little pole. I mean, c'mon, it's a LITTLE pole! But for some reason, Hick didn't deem the reel end to be important enough for viewing. Though he did include part of his junk collection in the background.

A New Theme Has Attached Itself to Val, and It Stinks

Great jumpin' Jehoshaphat! After yesterday's post, you'd think I sat people down in my dark basement lair in a broken rolly chair, and zapped them with a doggie shock collar* to make them read about Hick's poop!

[*A feat which The Pony, Genius, and Friend did after Thanksgiving dinner one year, under the auspices of "testing" the shock collar (for small dogs) before using it on formerly horse-chasing Puppy Jack.]

No! If you sense at the beginning that you don't like the way the tale is going, STAAHHHP! As hipster Genius might say. No need to read on. Skip it. Come back another day. I can't please all of the people all of the time. I rarely even try to please any of the people. You don't have to read it! That won't hurt my feelings.

You might think I nabbed the idea from joeh, who gave us a classic comedy recording, a retro fart contest, on his own blog the previous day. Nope. My post was already in the can (heh, heh, see what I did there, I said THE CAN when referring to my post about poop), scheduled for automatic publication, by the time I read Joe's windy tale.

I suppose that's the problem. I did not realize that it's okay to talk about the GAS that comes out of that area, but not about the SOLID that comes out of that area. Oopsie!

Anyhoo... yesterday's poop is gone with the wind, and it's time to move on.

When I pulled into the driveway Tuesday afternoon with the weekly groceries, I saw Hick on his clandestine lawnmower (the one he bought without telling me until I saw him riding it and asked where it came from) at the front of the field. He waved a cheery greeting, and I waved a COME HERE. Hick dutifully drove down to garage, where he made a circle around the concrete carport area, blades still spinning, creating a PigPen-like cloud. Always one to make a grand entrance, our Hick. He climbed off the lawnmower, turned his back to me, and said:

"Do I have poop on the back of my--"

Holy crap! I recoiled in horror, mentally filling in -- as PANTS! But no, he said BOOTS, and held up one, knee bent, so I could see the sole.

"Yeah. It's full of poop. The front part, and the heel. It's on the side of the other foot, too."

Let the record show these were his $14.99 BOOTS. The ones he got at K-Mart's going out of business sale, regular $49.99.

That pair in the back, with the light-colored soles. He wears them every day. The lug soles were filled with poop.

"You're gonna have to let them dry out, and then pry out the poop. It's gummy. You'll never get them clean until it's dried. Better put them up somewhere high, so the dogs don't get them."

Meaning Copper Jack. Our dogs don't usually chew on shoes, but my little Jack might be tempted

"Them damn dogs!"

"Where did you step in it? Our dogs poop in the woods, by the sinkhole. That's their toilet. I never see poop in the yard."

"I was down by the cabin. At the creek."

Hick carried in groceries for me. Just inside the kitchen door. He always finds a way to slack! I picked up a couple things that were awkward, like a pizza in a cardboard box from the Walmart deli, to carry to the side porch, so Copper Jack couldn't grab it from T-Hoe's rear, and so Hick wouldn't have to walk back down the steps for those items.

"Whew! The whole garage stinks like poop, and you only walked through it! Don't even step inside the house anymore. Just set the bags down inside the door. I'll get them. That stinks SO bad! I think it's CAT poop. Not dog poop."

"It was on the sand bar in the creek, down at the cabin."

"SAND? That's definitely cats!"

"I thought cats buried their poop."

"Probably not OUR cats! Maybe the sand was wet and they couldn't paw it over. But that stench is definitely CAT poop! Don't blame the dogs. Why would THEY poop on a sand bar? They'd just go in the woods like they always do. I'm not even sure it was OUR cats down there."

"Yeah. I didn't SEE the dogs do it."

"You'll have to leave them outside, to dry out. Maybe in the back of your truck. It's under the carport, in case it rains."

"Or I can put them on a high shelf in the garage..."

"NO! I don't want the garage to stink!"

I don't know where Hick put his poopy boots. I'd rather know how he managed to step in cat poop on a sand bar WITH BOTH FEET if he saw it there.

Everybody Poop-Shames

Don't they? Or am I the only one? The last of a dying breed. Or the crazy, cutting-edge innovator of a new trend. Am I the lone poop-shamer of the Blogosphere?

Here's the deal. I didn't consciously set out to be a poop-shamer on Monday. Sure, I've poop-shamed on my supersecret blog, but only five or six people must have read about it there. It's not like I'm a viral poop-shamer, or have a YouTube channel devoted to it. I only poop-shame as needed, to keep my sanity, and put the kibosh on an inadvertent murder of Hick by the arthritic hands of Val. Yes. Hick is the poop-shamed.

I called him when I got home from town. He'd passed me at the mailboxes before I left for town, and I'd seen SilverRedO at Hardee's when I went by. In the driveway an hour later, I noticed his absence, and gave him a call.

"Where are you now?"

"I'm up at the storage units. I brought some of my stuff by to put in, after cleaning out the BARn."

"Oh. I have a box of groceries to carry in, which I guess I will do by myself. I bought you some apples. That might help your problem. Though I don't see how, if you are only getting out little hard pieces, I had to clean off dried poop from the back of the toilet seat."

"Oh, well... ha, hah. I don't know how that happened..."

"Okay. I can tell you don't want to talk to me. As soon as I can get this garage door to open--I've only been telling you for about 10 years that my controller doesn't work--I'll carry in my stuff."

"Genius and I checked your opener. There was nothing wrong with it--"

"Never mind. It finally opened. I'll carry stuff in. Bye."

First of all, if Hick and GENIUS checked my garage door opener, that was 2013 at the most recent, since that's the year Genius went off to college. So I don't think it was unreasonable to expect him to offer to look at my opener for battery issues, or get me another one.

The poop issue, though, is of Hick's own making. I suspect he has been eating TWO bananas a day, rather than one, since he bought little green bananas at the auction, and didn't tell me, so I bought seven beautiful bananas at Walmart the next morning. Once he mentioned his "problem" on Sunday, I took the bull by the horns, and bought him some apples on Monday.

I didn't stop to think, while poop-shaming Hick, that other people might be privy (heh, heh, I said PRIVY) to our conversation. Hick was so abrupt with me that after the call, it dawned on me that MAYBE Hick was not in his Storage Unit Store at the time of the call, but shooting the bull in the office with the owner.

OOPS.

Let the record show that I have no problem hearing every word of Hick's phone conversations when we are sweaving along in A-Cad. He apparently has the volume set on HIGH.
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UPDATE:

Hick said he was NOT sitting in the office, but standing by his buddy a few units down. He didn't know if his buddy heard me poop-shame him or not. In the words of Hick himself: "I don't know. I don't care, anyway. It is what it is." Kind of like his attitude about the reason he NEEDS poop-shaming.
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